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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29227752">The Unforgivable</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer'>Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>And They Were Roommates [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Conflicted Malcolm Bright, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Good Parent Gil Arroyo, Good Parent Martin Whitly, Hurt/Comfort, Just Roll With It, Malcolm Bright Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Parent Martin Whitly, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, also, yes i know i switched from past tense to present tense</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:33:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,872</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29227752</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>His father holds him like he always used to, and it feels like he's holding Malcolm together, whole again for the first time in twenty-one years, and it's the best feeling he's had in so long. He feels safe, and warm, and loved. And it's such a weird, foreign feeling to have around his father now, but it's exactly what Malcolm needed, what he's needed for twenty-one years.</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gil Arroyo &amp; Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo &amp; Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright &amp; Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright &amp; Edrisa Tanaka, Malcolm Bright &amp; JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright &amp; Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright &amp; Martin Whitly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>And They Were Roommates [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147352</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malcolm's vision blurred for a second, seeing double as Dani left him with Martin.</p><p>His father's grip was surprisingly strong. It had been a while, he thought numbly, a while since he'd held him like this. His already-racing heart pounded a little quicker with alarm, but a smaller part of him wanted to sink even closer, and let his tingling legs buckle under his own weight. He was already trembling with the strain of keeping his own body upright at that point. The handcuffs dangled uselessly in his hand for a moment, fingers twitching as he tried to tighten his grip on them further, but he couldn't. The only thing he could do was stand there, swaying slightly where he stood, while Martin adjusted his grip so that Malcolm had no other <em>choice</em> but to sink back against him. The flare of panic that engulfed him was enough of an adrenaline boost to make him raise his head, but moving any other part of his body then felt impossible.</p><p>His jaw fell slack for a moment, almost preparing to call after Dani, but he shut it slowly again after a moment. There was no way he'd be able to yell loud enough for them to hear. And furthermore, Martin at the moment was his only source of support <em>physically</em>. And he hadn't exactly done anything wrong - <em>yet. </em>Recently. He certainly didn't want to provoke an unpleasant reaction right then. He just needed to get his bearings and hope his father didn't try anything.</p><p>Martin didn't seem to plan on it, though he also didn't seem ready to get them out of the room yet either. Malcolm felt his heart pound a little quicker when his father's grip shifted, turning to ease him up against the wall, and he lifted a cautious, narrowed, wary gaze to the other man's. The concern in his father's gaze looked so real, but there wasn't enough trust in Malcolm's heart to believe it as anything more than an act. He grimaced, blinking sluggishly at him for a few seconds, then lifted his head away from the wall and tried to force one of his arms to move. Martin's hands eased around his biceps - he was holding something else, Malcolm could feel it against his arm (and it felt suspiciously like a <em>card) </em>- and pushed him back against the wall.</p><p>"Careful, Malcolm." His voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. Malcolm's head whirled for a moment, eyes fluttering and falling shut as he listened. "You're severely injured."</p><p>Malcolm wheezed out a laugh, a strained breath that caught itself in his lungs and squeezed them like a string stitching two pieces of cloth together. There's nothing remotely funny about the situation, though, so the laughter died almost at once anyway. He creased his eyebrows together for a moment, a rush of cold fear enveloping him all at once, wrapping his body and mind in an ever-present, white-hot flicker of pain, pure and physical, as he opened his eyes. His gaze took its time focusing on Martin's face as his father glanced him over, from head to toe.</p><p>"My boy," he mumbled, tone dipping dangerously low to a growl-like rumble, which only further served to amp up the anxiety-ridden thoughts whirring like sirens in Malcolm's head. He swallowed, clenched teeth biting down on nothing. "I'm so sorry it took so long to get to you…"</p><p>Malcolm shook his head and managed to breathe in again. He could feel the air scratching against the inside of his lungs, and yet it doesn't seem to fill them completely. "We need to-"</p><p>"Now, now," his father chided, interrupting him, and Malcolm's lips quivered slightly as whatever he was going to say immediately vanished from the tip of his tongue and dissipated into nothing. Martin's grip on his arms eased a little, finally releasing him, but only so one of his hands could go to his pocket instead - a quick, fluid motion that Malcolm doesn't miss, even in his dazed state - as he pockets the card and returns his hands to his son, surprisingly gentle fingers gripping his shoulders as he begins to lower Malcolm down to the floor. "You need to <em>rest</em>, son."</p><p>Malcolm's mouth feels like cotton and he's swallowing needles as he obeys, only because his useless legs can't support him anymore and even the subtle pressure of Martin's hands on his shoulders are enough to make him crumble. He slides to the floor, seemingly a little too quickly for Martin's liking because the man is quick to steady him again before he can drop completely, holding him up for a good few seconds before lowering him down the rest of the way himself. A gentle, smooth hand finds Malcolm's cheek, cold as the room around them. He flinches at first, chest shuddering as his breathing hitches in response to the touch, but the contact is gentle and Martin's hand doesn't stray, uncontrolling but steady, and comforting in the strangest of ways.</p><p>Some of his fear slips away, despite himself. After all, Martin is still <em>there</em>. He's uncuffed but he's relatively harmless at the moment. There's cops in the building and Malcolm has to trust that at least Dani will come back when she notices that they haven't left the basement yet. But Malcolm knows they still need to move, maybe for <em>that</em> particular reason. He can't stifle the thrill of terror that pierces his heart when he suddenly wonders what she'd think about him still being in here.</p><p>With Martin.</p><p>His father.</p><p>(The Surgeon.)</p><p>"There." Martin settles in beside him, as content as can be. His hand doesn't leave Malcolm's face. "You've been working yourself to <em>death</em>, Malcolm. Almost quite literally today, might I add. You caught the killer, everyone's safe." His hand shifts, reaching further up Malcolm's head, and the man winces and furrows his eyebrows as Martin's hand slips through his hair. His fingers brush through casually, calmly as if he's done this a million times before, as if it hasn't been damn near… what, now? Twenty years since his father has shown him any sort of physical affection. Since they've been able to be this close to one another without some kind of restraint. Without a line between them, or Martin's hands fastened safely in a pair of handcuffs. It's been so long - <em>too long</em>, his mind laments - but Martin's fingers card through his hair and Malcolm's head tips sideways on its own accord, unconsciously sinking into the touch, because compared to the electrifying pain he'd been in just moments before, the gentle contact feels damn good.</p><p>"Hey," Martin whispers, and Malcolm pries an eye open to look at him. He doesn't remember closing them again, but they've been drifting shut on their own anyways. "We did it again, hm?"</p><p>Malcolm opens his mouth to respond, but all he can manage is a soft sigh and a nod.</p><p>"We make a pretty good team." Martin smiles at him, a subtle curl of his lips upwards, and his eyes sparkle with all the warmth in the world. That was what he used to think when his father smiled, at least. When the corners of his eyes crinkled, and his cheeks pushed a little higher, and he even had dimples, somehow always visible despite his beard and mustache. He used to think his father carried all the warmth and love in the world when he smiled, because that was the only thing he felt when Martin looked at him like that. Complete, warm, unconditional love.</p><p>He hates the longing that curls and coils in his gut. Feelings he'd felt before. Encasing him, trapping him. He feels like a kid again, twelve years old and curled up in his bed crying himself to sleep because he wants his father back, he wants his family back, and he wants his life back.</p><p>And he ruined them.</p><p>Anger clashes with guilt in his chest. His head drops again, drooping low to his chest, and a rush of heat flares across his eyes as tears blur his vision, rising but not quite spilling just yet.</p><p>He wonders for a second, if he could go back…</p><p>… no, no, he doesn't wonder that. He can't wonder that. That's <em>wrong.</em></p><p>Martin's hand curls through his hair, a gentle, steady motion, and he murmurs, "you're crying."</p><p>Malcolm doesn't respond. He breathes in, sniffling as he tries to clear his nose, and lets his eyes shut again. He gives up on the handcuffs completely and simply lets them drop, pooling against the floor with a sharp <em>clang</em> beside his leg as they land. Martin's hand stills against his head for a moment, but then it keeps moving, his fingers keep threading, soft and steady and gentle and warm. And Malcolm is hurt. And he's scared. And he's confused, <em>god</em>, he's confused.</p><p>He knows what he's about to do is unforgivable, at least in his eyes. But he's too tired to care now. His body shifts and sags sideways, closing whatever distance remains between him and his father, and he slumps over completely to rest his head against Martin's shoulder. The man stiffens again at once, his hand recoiling from Malcolm's hair. He stays like that for a moment, rigid as Malcolm leans against him - and then, ever so carefully, ever so slowly, his arm moves and wraps around Malcolm's shoulders. His hand finds his head again, and he continues carding his fingers through the profiler's hair as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't paused. And Malcolm… Malcolm just stays close. His head sinks deeper into Martin's shoulder, and through all the pain and guilt and fear he feels, a part of him - the child in him - is content.</p><p>Martin's cheek presses against the top of his head suddenly, and Malcolm stills again at the contact, panic flaring in his chest despite how content he'd been beside him seconds before.</p><p>But Martin just holds him.</p><p>Like he used to.</p><p>And Malcolm just lets him, because he needs it, because he… <em>can't.</em></p><p>He can't… do it anymore. The constant pain. The terror. The longing. The grief. Grieving for a man who had always been right in front of him, but who had somehow always felt miles upon miles upon miles away even when they were in the same room together. He can't take the <em>aching</em>, aching for his father even though he knows exactly what kind of a <em>monster</em> Martin Whitly truly is. He can't take it anymore. He's tired. He's tired of being scared. He's tired of being angry. He's tired of <em>wanting</em>, constantly <em>wanting</em>, and never, <em>ever</em>, <em>ever</em> being able to just… <em>have</em>.</p><p>So yeah, he lets Martin hold him. And yeah, maybe he turns and moves a little closer. And <em>yeah</em>, maybe he buries his face into Martin's shoulder, pressing himself as close as he can and simply trying to burrow himself completely into the fabric of the ridiculous leather jacket his father wore.</p><p>His hands find the edges of it, holding on tightly. Holding on, for the first time in years, to his father. He's not sure how to describe what he feels in that moment, an odd sense of <em>tranquility.</em></p><p>(He can't do it anymore. He can't hate a man that every other part of him ached to <em>love.)</em></p><p>Somehow, when he breathes in again, his tight lungs had suddenly relaxed. The air moves through him with ease as if there had never been any trouble to begin with, and the contant storm, tidal wave, raging fucking <em>river</em> of his mind had slowed to a calm, gentle pace. Martin Whitly had always had that kind of effect on him, but it had been a long time since it had come into play. It's a comfort and a terror all at once to know that such a thing hasn't quite changed.</p><p>But he thinks maybe he can forgive himself for this.</p><p>For wanting.</p><p>For taking, even though he knows he shouldn't.</p><p>It's so beautifully, dangerously complex, as it always is with his father. Malcolm knows better. He knows nothing will change. He knows <em>Martin</em> will never change. He knows who he is, what he is. He's a serial killer. He killed twenty-three people. He was a horrible, <em>horrible</em>, person.</p><p>But he was also his father. And Malcolm, for just this moment now, had to separate the two.</p><p>Martin hums, carding his fingers through Malcolm's hair silently for a moment. He ducks closer, his mouth pressing against the top of his son's head, and Malcolm's breathing hitches briefly.</p><p>"Are you alright?"</p><p>Mutely, Malcolm can only nod.</p><p>He feels like a child again.</p><p>Martin's hand rests against his cheek, and he pulls back enough to get a closer look at the younger man, and Malcolm reluctantly lifts his head in response. He doesn't meet Martin's gaze immediately; instead, his eyes fix on his hands, trembling slightly against Martin's jacket as he holds onto him, and… despite himself, despite everything, despite the guilt and shame he feels, that small, childish part of him still can't help but feel anything but content. "Enough to walk?"</p><p>He thinks so, but he doesn't want to. It's kind of funny, how eager he usually is to escape his father's presence, to escape his father in <em>general</em>, but now he can't bring himself to <em>want </em>to. It's funny, and it's scary, and all of that anxiety and fear is slowly coming back as the crushing realization really takes hold, and he realizes all at once that he truly <em>cannot</em> hate his father at all.</p><p>Maybe a part of him resents him. A part of him will always resent him. For being what he is, for not being who Malcolm <em>thought</em> he was, for putting him and <em>them</em> through all of this shit. But that resentment has never and apparently <em>will </em>never amount to <em>hatred</em>. He will always love his father. Despite what he is, what he's done, who he's hurt, who he's killed, Malcolm loves his father. And that thought alone shakes him to his very core, scares him more than anything else <em>ever </em>could. Because how is he supposed to fix that? Change that? Ignore that? If, after everything Martin has done already, every <em>horrible</em> thing, he still doesn't hate him - how is he ever supposed to?</p><p>He blinks a few times, tears blurring his vision. Martin's thumb trails across his cheek, slow and steady, and he levels such a gentle, worried gaze with Malcolm's that it almost breaks him all over again. "You're crying again, my boy. It's alright if you can't walk," he soothes. "Hold on."</p><p>"I…" Malcolm breathes, chest shuddering, but he doesn't know what to say.</p><p>"It's okay," Martin croons, soft and warm and <em>loving</em> and Malcolm's head spins for a second as he tries to process it, fingers clutching tighter onto his jacket. "It's <em>okay</em>. Let yourself have this."</p><p>Malcolm blinks at him, too tired to respond, too shaky and confused and out of it, and eventually just falls silent. His shoulders sag in defeat, however, after a moment, and he finds himself leaning into the touch while his father's other hand tugs at his suit jacket, checking his pockets. He knows what he's looking for (though a part of him still feels alarmed at first before the realization sets in), so he stays still for the most part - but his eyes, however, can't resist trailing down Martin's leather jacket to his own pockets, remembering the card that he'd been holding.</p><p>He's not stupid by any means. He knows. It's that damn golden key card.</p><p>"Dr. Whitly," he manages to force out. "You can't-"</p><p>Martin shushes him, pulling his phone from his pocket. "It's alright, Malcolm." He sits back, his hand unmoving from Malcolm's face, and turns his full attention to the phone in his hand.</p><p>Malcolm lapses into silence again, though he's not sure why. He could keep pressing, keep pushing - hell, he could reach into Martin's pocket right now and take that key card from him, although he's not sure he'd be able to keep it for too long given the poor state that he's in. He could do something, say something, but he doesn't. He just falls silent, tips his head back in a quiet resignation, then presses his face closer into Martin's hand and lets his eyes drift shut.</p><p>"Lieutenant Arroyo!" Martin's pleasant voice is enough to make him snap his eyes open again. His gaze reaches his father's again, wide and disbelieving, but Martin only offers him a smile. "Don't- no, don't worry, my boy is just fine. Well, not 'fine' fine. That's why I'm calling, actually."</p><p>There's a pause. Martin blinks, frowns, and pulls the phone away from his ear for a second.</p><p>"Now that's just <em>rude. </em>Gilly is so <em>vulgar</em>, isn't he?"</p><p>Malcolm creases his eyebrows together, a tiny spark of amusement igniting in his chest, but it vanishes rather quickly. He shifts, reaching out for the phone, and Martin hands it over dutifully.</p><p>"Hi, Gil," he manages to greet, sounding about as tired and weary and resigned as he feels. Which, he realizes, is probably not the best tone to take right then considering the circumstances, Gil might get the wrong idea, after all, and he figures the man's blood pressure is high enough as it is just hearing Martin's voice in the first place. "Don't worry, I'm- I'm okay-"</p><p>"You're 'okay'?" Gil responds dubiously. "You don't sound okay. Where are you?"</p><p>"He's <em>okay</em>," Martin cuts in loudly. "But he also requires medical attention!"</p><p>"I do not-" Malcolm spares him a glare and pulls his head back, finally recoiling from his touch. It leaves him a little colder, a horrible, heavy feeling weighing down in the pit of his stomach. Especially when Martin's eyebrows furrow and his expression shifts, a flicker of sadness briefly taking over his features before he manages to mask it again. Malcolm frowns at him for a second, then takes a breath and reminds himself to answer Gil's question. "I'm- we're still in the basement. And I'm okay," he assures again. "I'm okay, really. No medical attention required. I-"</p><p>Martin leans in, close to the phone - close to <em>him</em> - and Malcolm surprises even himself with the fact that he doesn't flinch away. Despite how close they are, he's not as <em>afraid</em> of him anymore.</p><p>(Of course, a part of him always will be, but…)</p><p>"He's lying," Martin says into the phone. "He was just tased about a dozen times."</p><p>Malcolm winces a little, shoulders slumping in defeat before Gil even speaks.</p><p>"<em>What?" </em>He's talking through his teeth, and Malcolm can practically picture his expression right then, a perfect mixture of concern and fury. "I'm calling an ambulance. Bright, not a word," he adds, a clear warning in his voice, and the younger man huffs, sighs, and slowly clamps his mouth shut, silencing the protest that had risen to the tip of his tongue before he can even voice it. "I'm coming down there." There's a click, and the line goes dead as Gil hangs up the phone.</p><p>Martin raises an eyebrow, while Malcolm drops the phone from his ear and holds it in his lap. "Well, that was pleasant. Good man, that Lieutenant Arroyo. He certainly cares for you." Malcolm doesn't respond for a moment, eyebrows furrowing. He can see the danger behind his father's smile, the anger lurking in his eyes, and it finally sparks a prickle of fear, a chill racing up his spine. And then Martin smiles again, a little wider this time, and whatever negativity he'd held only a second before is suddenly replaced with warmth, and love, and it's just jarring enough that he can't help but flinch when Martin lifts a hand back to his face again. The man stills for a second, a brief flicker of <em>hurt</em> flashing across his face, and it almost… it almost stings.</p><p>Before he can pull away - which he seems, surprisingly, about to do - Malcolm does something he'd never imagined he would do in a million years. But he does. He leans forward, inclining his head toward his father, and presses the side of his face against the palm of Martin's hand.</p><p>Martin looks startled for a second, his hand frozen against Malcolm's face. And then he softens again, tilting his head to the side, and rubs his thumb across his son's cheek, almost cautiously.</p><p>"My boy," he whispers, and Malcolm's lips tug upwards, into a smile, without his permission.</p><p>He realizes it only when Martin blinks and smiles back at him, eyes practically <em>sparkling</em>.</p><p>It's unexplainable.</p><p>It's unforgivable.</p><p>But something in him - <em>the child in him </em>- it softens, and melts, and <em>mends.</em></p><p>And he smiles again, through another rush of tears, and blinks them back furiously with a soft, shuddery inhale and ducks his head. Martin's hand follows, then raises, fingers running through his hair before the man suddenly pushes himself up and presses forward, pulling him into a hug. Malcolm stills for a second, more so out of surprise than fear; his hands lift, careful and hesitant, before both his mind and body seem to say <em>fuck it</em> all at once. His arms wrap around the man, tight and steady, and his head burrows itself into his shoulder, face pressing into his jacket.</p><p>His father holds him like he always used to, and it feels like he's holding Malcolm <em>together</em>, whole again for the first time in twenty-one years, and it's the best feeling he's had in so long. He feels safe, and warm, and loved. And it's such a weird, foreign feeling to have around his father now, but it's exactly what Malcolm needed, what he's needed for <em>twenty-one years.</em></p><p>"I love you, son," Martin whispers, and Malcolm breaks and mends again all over again.</p><p>With a quiet huff that's dangerously close to a sob, he manages to choke out, "I love you, too."</p><p>(And god help him, he <em>does.</em>)</p><p>He hears the elevator doors slide open, and a reflexive rush of panic is enough to separate him from his father again almost at once, detangling himself from the older man's arms at once. Martin, to his credit, seems to understand; he raises his eyebrows, but says nothing about it. Simply smiles, turns his head and calls out to Gil, while Malcolm does his best to steady himself and reaches back to the wall to pull himself to his feet, "we're over here, Lieutenant Arroyo!"</p><p>Martin doesn't touch him again, but he does look at him disapprovingly while Malcolm tries (somewhat unsuccessfully) to heave himself to his feet. His father moves only to grab the discarded cuffs and Malcolm's phone from the floor, handing the latter to Malcolm and silently working on fastening the handcuffs around his wrists. Malcolm watches, one hand holding him up against the wall, and is abruptly reminded of the golden key card safely stored away in his father's pocket. He stares at the man for a moment, going slack against the wall, and opens his mouth. Before he has the chance to say anything, however, Gil abruptly rounds the corner.</p><p>"Malcolm," he breathes, sounding relieved, worried, disapproving and <em>furious</em> as he makes his way over to them. Malcolm wavers, snapping his mouth shut, and manages a tired smile.</p><p>"I'm fine."</p><p>"You're still going to the hospital in that ambulance," Gil retorts, turning his attention to Martin briefly as he reaches for the younger man, helping him away from the wall. Malcolm feels like <em>maybe</em> he's steady enough to stand on his own, but on the off chance that he isn't, he doesn't protest too much when Gil wraps an arm around him to hold him up, shifting to wrap one of Malcolm's arms around his neck. "As for you, if you try anything funny, Dr. Whitly, I swear…"</p><p>"And what exactly would I do?" Martin responds, holding his cuffed hands up pointedly.</p><p>Gil narrows his eyes and turns away without a word, checking to make sure Malcolm is steady before they head off. The profiler takes a breath, slow and shaky, and looks back at his father. Martin only smiles at him, following after them dutifully; Malcolm holds his gaze, just for a moment, then slowly trails his gaze down to Martin's left pocket, the one holding the key card.</p><p>He should say something. He <em>knows</em> he should say something.</p><p>But he does the unthinkable.</p><p>The unexplainable.</p><p>With a cold, dead weight in the pit of his stomach accompanied by the knowledge that Martin quite literally holds <em>all the cards</em> right now - at least, the one card that matters, the one card that can open every door in Claremont, the one card he needs to be able to escape, to get <em>free-</em></p><p>He does the unforgivable.</p><p>Malcolm doesn't say anything.</p><p>He doesn't say a damn word.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malcolm complies dutifully as Gil leads him outside to the ambulance.</p><p>The cold air isn't much of a shift from how the basement had felt, and he finds he'd much rather be inside again with the heat blasting. It's not quite a comfort to know the hospital is where they're heading now, because they seemingly keep that place as cold as they can - but either way, he knows better to argue or object when Gil gets <em>that look</em> on his face. Now that he's not so focused on Martin now, and rather hyper-aware of the erratic, unsteady pounding of his heart, he does recognize that maybe he does need to go, anyway. He can still feel the electricity sparking through his veins - and furthermore, he knows damn well his heart can't take that. Truthfully, he's not quite sure how he's still up and on his feet right now. He's not quite steady; he can hardly feel his legs and Gil is about ninety percent of his physical support right then, and it's a wonder he's even standing at all. He's gone into cardiac arrest for a lot less than this.</p><p>Of course, that was back in DC, when a simple nightmare could scare him into a good day-or-so visit to the hospital. He'd tried switching around his meds a little, spreading them out, knocking some off altogether, and for the most part, he'd been okay. He hadn't had an <em>incident</em> since he'd returned to New York. But, then, he also hadn't been electrocuted about a dozen times yet, so…</p><p>"Are you alright?" Gil's voice draws him from his thoughts a little abruptly as he surrenders the younger man over to the paramedics, letting them take him and lay him onto the stretcher.</p><p>"Yeah," is all he can murmur in response, but the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach doesn't fade, that same sticky feeling he'd been stuck with since they left the basement. Remembering what he'd done - or what he <em>didn't do</em> - back there causes his heart to instinctively pump a little quicker, harsh and frantic and uncontrollable, pounding against his ribcage with a rhythmatic but irregular series of <em>ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-ba-bump- </em>and Malcolm knows going to the hospital is a good idea, now more than ever. The sooner he gets out of Gil's sight, the better. The pure guilt and shock of what he'd done is making him increasingly nauseous.</p><p>He can't stop asking himself why. Why he hadn't said anything. Why he hadn't <em>done</em> anything. Martin had every chance to escape from Claremont - a known serial killer, the <em>Surgeon</em> himself - and Malcolm could have stopped it, but he hadn't. He'd just let him walk off with the key card.</p><p>His heart rate picks up. This time he can hear the beeping on the monitor.</p><p>Gil's expression shifts suddenly, climbing into the ambulance with them. The paramedics suddenly look horrified, stunned, frozen for a second - Malcolm doesn't know what the big deal is until he twists his head around to look toward the monitor they'd hooked him up to, head whirling dangerously for a second as he sees that his heart rate had skyrocketed right up into the two-hundreds and was still climbing higher. Higher, and higher, and he was lightheaded and-</p><p>"Oh," he manages to breathe, "that's not good."</p><p>"Bright-"</p><p>"Sir-"</p><p>He doesn't respond. Can't respond.</p><p>Heart rate still climbing steadily, Malcolm lets his eyes drift shut, and they don't open again.</p><hr/><p>It's not his first time waking up in a hospital, but it's the first time he wakes up without being startled from a nightmare. Actually, his waking is surprisingly peaceful; after the night he'd had, one would have expected him to plunge straight into the horrors of his subconscious, for his mind to turn against him like usual. But everything was blissfully dark and numb and <em>nothing</em>. He wakes up slowly, drawn from his slumber by a steady staccato of beeps, the gentle pulsing of his heart - under control now, no longer pounding as furiously and uncontrollably as before. The moment he manages to pry his eyes open, a familiar face is up and at his side, a hand on his arm, and a voice with a concern he doesn't deserve is saying, "Malcolm? Hey, kid, you okay?"</p><p>Malcolm breathes in, chest tight, shuddering with the force it takes just to <em>inhale</em>, and nods. "I'm," he starts and stutters out again, staring at Gil for a moment, and shivers. "I'm sorry."</p><p>Gil's eyebrows furrow slightly, squeezing his arm. "Sorry for what?" He asks dubiously, but Malcolm only shakes his head, mouth dry, and doesn't say anything else after that. Again, he knows he should. He knows he should be spilling his guts right now, but god help him, he can't. A part of him hopes Mr. David or someone will find the card before any harm can be done. Almost every part of him does. Except one part. One part. The part of him that had snuggled up close to his father, held on tight and buried his face into his shoulder and told him he loved him.</p><p>That part of him wants his dad, Surgeon or not.</p><p>That part of him scares him silent for the rest of his time in the hospital.</p><hr/><p>Three whole weeks pass. Malcolm does his best to convince Gil that he's okay, and he stays about as far away from Claremont as he can even long after they let him leave the hospital, a day after he'd arrived. He doesn't mention his father, and he appreciates that Gil doesn't bring up or ask about what happened down there in the basement during the time he was stuck with Martin.</p><p>Guilt and fear keeps him locked in his apartment for the first few days.</p><p>The day after he leaves the hospital, Jessica calls him to the mansion. She sits him down at the table, and they pass glasses back and forth while Malcolm watches her pour water, absently listening to her talk about the day she'd had, about Hans, about a rabbit hole, and then she-</p><p>She hands him a glass and he reaches out to take it, open mouthed to thank her - until, with a smile on her face, she tells him, "I actually thought that <em>you</em> might have killed Nicholas Endicott."</p><p>(His sister's bloodstained, wild-eyed face flashes in his mind, the knife dripping with blood.)</p><p><em>Funny, isn't it? </em>His own voice chuckles in his head, mocking him, taunting him. Malcolm can do nothing but stare at Jessica as she pulls her hand away from the glass, watching him intently. She's expecting a reaction. Maybe expecting him to laugh it off, to tell her that's ridiculous. But the only thing he can do is stare. His hand, still curled around the top of the glass, begins to shake and tremble, the water inside sloshing against the sides, and Jessica's pleasant expression quickly withers into something a little more troubled. <em>You're protecting </em><em><strong>two</strong></em> <em>killers.</em></p><p>Malcolm flinches. The glass slips from his fingers and crashes to the table, luckily not shattering. But it tips over and the water spills out across the table, over the sides of it, onto the floor. Jessica jumps a little, sucking in a shaky breath, eyes snapping down to the glass and then back up to Malcolm's pale face as he clutches his shaking hand to his chest and shrinks back.</p><p>"Malcolm," she breathes, a horrified whisper, disbelief etched across her face. "You didn't…"</p><p>He stares at her for a moment, guilt-ridden, scared, then pushes his chair back and scrambles to his feet. Jessica watches with wide eyes, pupils barely pinpricks as he stumbles back.</p><p>"I'm sorry," is all he can say, stammering as he staggers backwards. "I'm sorry-"</p><p>Jessica doesn't say anything. She just covers her mouth, staring at him.</p><p>Malcolm feels like he's gonna throw up. The room is spinning, he's dizzy, he's cold. She knows. Well - no, she doesn't know. She doesn't know the truth. She thinks he killed Nicholas. And that's- that's good. That's really good. She needs to think that. She can't know it was Ainsley.</p><p>But he needs to get out of there.</p><p>So he does.</p><p>He leaves.</p><p>He runs.</p><p>And he hasn't talked to his mother since that night.</p><hr/><p>After a few days of shutting himself off in his apartment and ignoring everyone else's phone calls, Malcolm comes to the conclusion that nothing is going to happen concerning his father. As far as everyone is concerned, the Surgeon is still locked away safely in Claremont. Malcolm still refuses to visit, but Martin calls him regularly - and although Malcolm doesn't answer, he still takes comfort in each phone call he receives, recognizing the number from Claremont easily. It's nothing but a comfort to know that Martin is still locked away where he can't hurt anyone.</p><p>(At least, that's what he tells himself.)</p><p>And still, he's… on edge. He's erratic. He flinches each time his phone rings and his tremors are worse, and his nightmares are worse, and he can't sleep, and he hardly leaves his place now. His apartment is a mess because he can't bring himself to clean up after himself anymore, clothes strewn over the floor, dirty dishes and empty champagne glasses on the counters.</p><p>Ainsley comes by to check on him. Malcolm doesn't let her past the doorway.</p><p>He goes to work, tries to focus on a case to keep himself busy. JT finally comes in, happily showing them photos of little JT Junior as they work the case, and Malcolm tries - he really does - to get as excited as Dani and Gil do, to get into the case, to <em>be</em> there. But he can't stop checking his phone. Phone calls from Martin pile up. Paranoia eats at him with each passing second. He feels like he's on the verge of an impending breakdown, one step from the edge.</p><p>He's not all there. He's on autopilot, going through the motions.</p><p>The others know it, too. Dani keeps glancing at him, worried looks cast in his direction. Gil asks him if he's okay every few minutes. JT doesn't say anything, but once, when they close up the latest case, he claps a hand over Malcolm's shoulder from behind as he's passing somewhat casually, kind of a congratulations of sorts, and he flinches. Violently. His body shudders under the touch and JT's hand freezes in the air as it lifts. For a second, he's not even sure the man saw - but then he turns to face Malcolm with a rare spark of concern in his gaze. "... you good?"</p><p>Just like that, it's like whatever tether was holding him together inside just suddenly snaps. He doesn't even know why. It's such a simple question, but he <em>freaks out. </em>"I don't <em>know, okay?!"</em></p><p>JT's shoulders jerk a little, staring at him, but to his credit, he doesn't move or step back.</p><p>The concern in his gaze intensifies.</p><p>Malcolm blinks a few times, struggling with the panic pounding strong through his chest, and realizes what he'd done a little too late. Guilt overtakes him at once, and it must show on his face, because JT's usually stoic expression falters into something a little softer, the concern moving from his eyes to shadow over his features completely as he steps closer to the man.</p><p>"What's goin' on?" He asks, quietly, as if he doesn't want anyone to hear.</p><p>Like it's a secret that Malcolm's falling apart at the seams.</p><p>Despite himself, he laughs. Soft and sharp and breathless and pained.</p><p>"Nothing," he manages, "nothing, that's the problem."</p><p>He leaves without elaborating, and he can still feel JT's gaze fixed on his back as he retreats.</p><hr/><p>They're at the precinct, eight-o'-clock sharp in the morning, when the news comes in. Dani, JT and Gil are discussing the latest case while Malcolm sits at the table with his face in his hands. Today is just one of the days where he's just completely, utterly exhausted. Something's wrong. Something's <em>wrong</em> with him. It's been a week since everything at Claremont had gone down. Martin had stopped calling him a few days ago, which was scary enough in itself, but he'd been keeping an eye on the news and so far nothing had come up.</p><p>But something's still wrong. He can't shake the feeling in the pit of his stomach, the constant pain and guilt and anger and <em>fear</em>. It's eating him alive, destroying him from the inside out. He's tired, he's grumpy, he can't think straight. He doesn't even want to work. Solving cases isn't the distraction it used to be. All of his coping mechanisms are flopping, falling completely flat, and-</p><p><em>And he's losing his mind, he's losing his mind, he's losing his fucking </em> <em> <strong>mind-</strong> </em></p><p>"Bright, you with us?"</p><p>"Mhm," Malcolm hums, but he's not. He hasn't heard a thing they've been saying. A shudder rolls through him, hands shaking as he runs them through his hair and lifts his head up.</p><p>Gil looks at him for a long moment, exchanges a glance with the other two, and goes, "... mayb-"</p><p>Edrisa bursts in before he can finish. Glasses crooked, hair a mess, her expression a startling mixture of elation and panic. Malcolm's gaze lands on her and his stomach shrivels up before she even catches her breath to speak. He knows. He knows before she even opens her mouth.</p><p>"The Surgeon-" She gasps, "-the Surgeon just escaped Claremont."</p><hr/><p>The precinct goes into a complete panic.</p><p>Excusing himself to go home, check on Sunshine and lock himself in, Malcolm leaves.</p><hr/><p>For the first time in a week, he answers a phone call from Jessica, practically screaming at him to get home and stay inside and get to safety. Malcolm tries half-heartedly to reassure her that he's fine, and offers her the same advice, telling her to lock the doors and keep herself and Ainsley safe. He wants to go there, but he can't bring himself to. Gil calls when he's about halfway to his apartment and tells him he's sending a team over to watch the mansion and make sure Martin can't get to Jessica and Ainsley. Malcolm does his best to assure him, as well, that he'll be okay, and that he doesn't need anyone to watch his apartment. Gil doesn't agree, genuinely fighting him for the first time in a long time, until it escalates to the point where Malcolm just hangs up on him, feeling as if the edge had completely vanished from under him.</p><p>His door is cracked when he gets to his apartment.</p><p>He stands outside for a long time, just staring at it. He knows he should call someone. Call Gil. Call for backup. Get the team down here. <em>Do not fucking go through that door, Malcolm Bright.</em></p><p>His phone buzzes in his pocket. Malcolm flinches, squeezing his eyes shut.</p><p>
  <em>Don't go in there</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>It's just your dad</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's a serial killer</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Ainsley's a killer</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's the Surgeon</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>He's your father</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's a monster</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>There's no such thing as monsters</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's a liar</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>You've never lied?</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's dangerous</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Like father, like children</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's a predatory sociopath</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>He loves you</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's incapable of love</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>You love him</strong> </em>
</p><p>Malcolm shudders, a cold prickle down his spine, and presses forward. Moving without permission, the world blurring and spiraling into nothingness around him as he pushes the door open completely and makes his way up the stairs, shutting the door tight behind him. He doesn't scale the steps slowly, no; he's quick to make his way up into his loft. Sunshine is in her cage, surprisingly content - a sharp contrast to how frantic and angry she always seems whenever Jessica enters his apartment when he's not home. She's not chirping or fluttering around or rattling the cage. She's perched calmly, preening her feathers when Malcolm enters, and offers only a quick trill to him as a hello, and he wonders for just a second if maybe he was wrong-</p><p>Then the smell of tea floods his senses, nearly choking him, rendering him breathless, making his throat hurt, and he turns. Martin's there, standing on the other side of his counter, wearing that same leather jacket, clutching a beanie in one hand and a steaming cup in the other.</p><p>"Malcolm, my boy!" He exclaims, warm, happy, excited. "Welcome home."</p>
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